


Blue Fairies

by noplzno



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Demon Stiles, Gen, Mention of Child Abuse, Mention of Mental Illness, demon, elements of buffy fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplzno/pseuds/noplzno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman sat quietly in the hallway, hands clasped together in a tight grip, white knuckled and just shy of shaking. She didn't glance up at the sound of the footsteps that approached, they lacked the purposeful <i>snap, tap, rustle</i> of the doctors and nurses whose passing had kept her tensing in anticipation for the past hour. The seat beside her squeaked, and the woman had to fight down a growl of irritation. There were plenty of other empty seats and while normally sociable, she had neither the energy nor the patience for it right now. She ignored them in favour of staring into the linoleum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Geppetto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ordinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/gifts).



The woman sat quietly in the hallway, hands clasped together in a tight grip, white knuckled and just shy of shaking. She didn't glance up at the sound of the footsteps that approached, they lacked the purposeful _snap, tap, rustle_ of the doctors and nurses whose passing had kept her tensing in anticipation for the past hour. The seat beside her squeaked, and the woman had to fight down a soft growl of irritation. There were plenty of other empty seats and while normally sociable, she had neither the energy nor the patience for it right now. She ignored them in favour of staring into the linoleum.

Focusing and unfocusing her eyes, she picked out shapes and images in the faux-marble swirling. It wasn't unlike like cloud gazing, except for the coldly depressing fact that she was staring at a hospital floor waiting on the bad news she already knew deep down in the pit of her stomach. 

"That one looks like a cowboy. Riding a hippo."

The voice would have been jarring if it wasn't so young and tentatively hopeful. Finally glancing up, her eyes skittered over the small boy beside her in surprise, barely registering pale skin and thin limbs before glancing away as an authoritive clicking of heels entered the hall and then passed by without slowing. She let go of a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, then brought her attention back to the boy. He gave her an expectant look, eyebrows raised in arch encouragement, as if to say, _Your turn._

She tried not to stare too long at the angry bruising on his swollen cheek or the split in his lip, determinedly ignoring the unwanted recall of similar bruises best left in the past. It was probably just some playground accident, _children were so rough after all._ Her lips curled in a small sneer at the excuse before a sudden, sharp stab of pain had her looking down at where her wedding ring had turned to bite viciously into now shaking hands. Slowly, carefully, she loosed them and transferred the grip to the arm rests of her chair. Taking and releasing a deep breath, she gave the boy a brittle smile and tapped a tile with her shoe.

"A flamingo wearing a sombrero."

The boy let out a pleased peal of laughter and then bounced in his chair to point out a race car with chicken legs instead of wheels.

A half hour later, and each was well informed on the other's taste in "cool" pets, food (both concurring that celery was strange, and that if fries weren't meant to be curly, then potatoes wouldn't be round) and were just starting a surprisingly heated debate on Marvel vs DC.

"Listen kid, the best heroes aren't heroes because of their circumstances, they're heroes _despite_ their circumstances."

"Lady, I don't even care. Batman is _awesome._ He is the one hero to rule them all. End of story."

"Brat, wait until you're older and then..."

"And then I'll _still_ think Batman is cooler, because _he is."_ The boy's spindly arms gestured dramatically to emphasize the undeniable truthiness of this fact. "Like even his normal self is cooler than 99% of those other dudes. He's a freaking _buhmillionaire,_ super handsome, genius, playboy..."

"Sociopath."

"I don't even know what that word _means,_ but as I was saying..." she received a look of stern reproof as he continued, "...well now I _forget_ what I was going to say, so I hope you're _happy now._ Anyway, Bruce Wayne has the best life and I want it." He folded his arms and just dared her to argue.

So of course she did.

"You know losing both your parents at a young age isn't exactly what I'd call _the best life."_

"Yeah...well," he looked away and the bruise caught and held her eyes in silent accusation, _"...says you."_

They both sat quietly for a while before she responded, voice a little rough, "I don't really like mine that much either, to be honest."

Startled, he turned to her, face full of open surprise. She smirked back, wondering how often adults had fed him line after line about loving and standing by your family no matter what. He gave a small smile and then sighed, ducking his head, "Sometimes I wish mine would just disappear, you know?"

The woman nodded in sage understanding. Normally she liked to think the years of angry, bitter hopes and ill-wishing were well behind her, but a dark thrill of satisfaction curled through her at the thought of them, even now. "Yeah, I still wish..." A tension filled the air, the boy staring at her in rapt expectation.

"Mrs. Stilinski," they both startled and turned at the nurse's voice, "...the doctor will see you now."

Letting out a small choke of laughter, the woman got up from her seat. She gave the boy, now in a distinct state of pouting, a small wave and followed the nurse out. Displaying and outward calm she didn't feel, Margaret Stilinski walked toward what was feeling increasingly like a sort of death sentence.

An hour later she walked away, numbly holding a folder full of so-called _options_ and staring down the bleak hallway that suddenly felt like the rest of her life. Oh wait no, there was _a child_ there, so that comparison was no longer valid. Not to mention the distinct lack of _uterine cancer._ What a lucky hallway, living the life she only wishes she could have. God, she had to get out of here before the hysterical laughter and ugly sobbing crept out of her mouth and strangled whatever composure she had left.

The boy, same one as before, looked up at her passing with a flat, disappointed expression, and Margaret found herself pausing in her escape. Taking a deep breath, she returned to stop in front of him and bent down to look him directly in the eye. _"Fuck_ my parents, and your parents too if they did that to you. If you're going to make a wish, wish for something for yourself and don't waste it on trash like them. You know what _I_ wish? _I wish I could have a kid just like you."_

She straightened up, turning to finally, _finally_ leave this all behind to mourn everything she couldn't have in the comfort of her own home, and then the hospital _kept on_ turning and swirling past her. The boy’s face shifted, morphing into something alien, something flayed and terrible and _pleased._ Everything spun and she felt herself twisting and falling into nothing.

Cruel, boyish laughter followed her down on the tail of a softly amused, _"Done."_

 

A large, warm hand held her own, stroking familiar patterns on the back of it. Eyes fluttering open, she stared up into the worried plains of her husband's face and felt something tighten and then relax inside of her at his presence. Even if everything else was going to hell, at least she had this. She smiled and he squeezed her hand, face ducking down as he unsuccessfully tried to hide the way his face crumpled in relief and the swift way he rebuilt himself into someone more stolid and unshakable. 

"Oh, stop with the comforting cop face and give me a kiss, dumbass."

 _"Margey,"_ his voice broke over her name, part laugh and all desperation as he leaned down to kiss her chastely on the lips like she was some sort of goddamn glass princess. 

So he knew, then. But neither of them were quite ready for that talk just now, so he just sighed and ran a hand over his face, taking the seat beside her bed.

"I was so worried when Stiles called me to tell you collapsed, I nearly drove my cruiser into the duck pond getting here. And I may have knocked down Ms. Farnsworth's mailbox." He gave her a small, chagrined wince.

"That thing's hideous anyway, you should get a commendation for beautifying... _Stiles?"_

"Do you want me to call him in? Of course you do, sorry, he was getting a bit too restless to stay in here..."

"Who's Stiles?"

Her husband stared at her in horror for a moment before he pointed at her, eyes glinting with grim amusement, _"Not funny,_ you almost got me there. But I think we have enough on our plates without amnesia to boot, don't you?" He walked over to the door and said, "Hey kiddo, your mom's awake. Now don't..." A small, familiar body shoved past him and skidded to her bedside.

"Mom, _oh my god!"_ Arms wrapped around her neck, pale, thin, and quivering. The boy from the hallway stared at her with an expectant look, eyebrows raised in arch encouragement, as if to say, _Your turn._

 

This should have been where their happy ending began, wish granted and life fulfilled. But Margaret stared into the eyes of the boy and saw past their bright warmth to the flayed creature that lurked just beneath. It gave her a satisfied smile containing too many teeth and leaned in to kiss her cheek.


	2. the real boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are okay until they are not.

Coming home from the hospital, Margaret was greeted by the familiar made strange in the form of small, dirty sneakers beside the doorway and rough, colourful drawings hung on the fridge. The cupboards contained items like SpongeBob macaroni while random action figures peered out of odd nooks and crannies. The laundry hamper was full of small clothes with inexplicable stains. 

Where they once had a guestroom, there was a now a boy's bedroom filled with the clutter and curiosities of a child who had yet to focus on any one obsession, choosing instead to be fascinated by everything he came into contact with. Terrariums, both bought and made, an ant farm (looking more like an ant graveyard,) rocks of enticing colour and pattern, a radio in several pieces, and what appeared to be a good dozen projects in various stages of completion. This wasn't a room that could have suddenly appeared overnight (but oh, she couldn't let herself forget that _it was._ )

Later she'd go up into the attic and find boxes of full of videos, finger paintings, photos, a birth certificate. All of which said she had a _son,_ a wonderful son that had brightened her and her husband's lives for the past seven years in ways that both made her ache with want and left her vomiting in the bathroom afterward. None of this was _right._ None of this was _hers_ and she couldn't even say anything because John had been right when he said amnesia was the last thing they needed. Or possible insanity, there was always that interpretation, as well. It wasn't as if she could just say that she didn't have a son yesterday. That she'd made a wish and then suddenly _magic._ That she was increasingly sure the boy wasn't even human.

It would sound insane, she could see that easily enough, and sharing what had happened would only lead others to explain it away, to diagnose it, to lead her to doubt herself in various well-meaning ways. And doubting herself wasn't something she could afford right now, not in the face of all the evidence. Not when she saw her husband sweep the boy, _Stiles,_ up in his arms and smile like he held everything right and wonderful in the world. 

And so she waited, and watched, and played along. Whatever slips and lack of recall she made were almost always attributed to her new medications or lack of sleep. She wasn't sleeping well at all lately. The days weren't even that bad, she could almost just forget about everything wrong during the day. She had a son, and hadn't she always wanted one? Wasn't it so, _so_ easy to just slip into chattering with him, and wasn't it _fun_ to go on walks with him, exploring their small town as she never thought to before? Didn't she start to notice how he displayed certain mannerisms she recognized as both John’s and her own? Every day, the boy seemed more and more like a child of _theirs._ But whatever occurred during the day couldn't keep away the nights where she was alone with only her own thoughts and memories for company. When sleep did come, it was restless and uncomfortable nearly always left her with the echo of cruel, mocking laughter and a razorblade smile glinting from an inhuman face. 

Things continued much the same for months, and when confirmation came, it was almost a relief after waiting so long for the daylight fantasy to crack. It wasn't what she was expecting though, she had been expecting something more along the lines of a horror film, all glinting knives and panicked screaming. Looking back, she'd definitely been underestimating Stiles at the time. 

"What?"

Caroline Whittemore blew noisily into a tissue and blinked teary eyes at her, "I know, I just....I didn't think this would ever happen. At least not like this. When Jackson found out he was adopted he just..." 

Margaret awkwardly rubbed the other woman's back as she broke down crying. She hadn't seen Caroline like this in years, not since her pregnancy, and it was hard not to bark an incredulous laugh remembering it. "Adopted? _I was there when you gave birth to him,_ I was the second person to hold him! How can he think he's adopted?" 

Arms wrapped around her in a tight, crushing hug and then her best friend gave her a broken little smile, whispering, "You don't have to say that. Not anymore...we won't be, we won't be lying to him about it anymore."

Hours later, and she mentions it to John after his shift. With a frown, he pulled her close and sighed against her hair, "I know you were always worried about this happening sooner than he was ready for. We should probably have a talk with Stiles about this later, make sure he understands what's happening to his friend." All she can do is nod, try not to throw up or breakdown, and offer to explain it herself tomorrow. She doesn't sleep at all that night and calls in to work the next morning. 

The afternoon finds her drowsing in bed, body finally giving in to exhaustion over sick anticipation. She's almost asleep when her bed sinks down and a small hand touches her face and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Blinking rapidly, Margaret stares up at the boy and almost reaches out to touch him, a reaction built-up over these past few months of motherhood. Around his left eye is a rapidly swelling bruise.

Cocking an eyebrow at the aborted movement, he smiles down at her, "Don't worry, it's _waaaay_ worse than it looks."

She frowned up at him and then struggled to sit up, the boy adjusting the pillows to better accommodate her.

"I might have said something to Jackson that he didn't like," he scratched at the back of his head and smiled wryly, but not at all displeased or upset.

"And what was that?"

Stiles didn't seem to mind the flatness of her tone or the firm accusation in the stare leveled at him, in fact he seemed to take a moment to _preen_ under her attention. With a satisfied smile, he answered easily, "I just said, _Well at least you got your wish."_ The smile widened and the smug little shit winked at her before continuing, "I usually take on abused children," he gently tapped her right wrist, exactly where it had been snapped when she was ten and finding out the monster wasn't under the bed, but rather the next room over, "...but since I'm working more locally now, I figured I should branch out, maybe take on a neglect case or two."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that Caroline was just now managing to restart her career, and yes it meant less time with her son, but she still tried to make time for him. She should argue for her friend, tell him to take it back and restore the Whittemores as they had been. Instead she found herself stating with incredulous exasperation, "Why would you say that to him? You had to know it would just make things worse."

The boy flopped down next her and stared up into the ceiling, his smile smaller and more thoughtful now, "Yeah. Jackson, even before this he was way more high-strung than any third grader has a right to be. He'll probably never forgive me, you know? Not that he knows what I did anything, or because I said something mean, but because _I_ was the one he said the magic words to, I _know_ what he said and that'll just eat at him for years to come."

"He was your _best friend."_ She glanced at the window, wondering if she should call up Caroline, explain that maybe Jackson shouldn't come by for a while.

"Then I guess I'll just have to get a new one."

**Author's Note:**

> Demon Stiles gets a lot of play, but usually of the SPN variety, but I've become a fair bit intrigued at the thought of him as a vengeance demon of the BtVS variety. Particularly as a Patron Saint of Abused Children, with Mrs. Stilinski a bit overdue for some vengeance against her own parents, but the offices have been short staffed for a good decade, so better late than never. 
> 
> For those unfamiliar with BtVS vengeance demons, they're much like djinn in that they prefer to fulfill wishes in the most painful way possible for everyone concerned. In this case, altering the world to make himself her son, and leaving only her with the awareness that her "son" is a hundred shades of wrong and likely responsible for the bizarre tragedies that begin to crop up around Beacon Hills' more troubled households.


End file.
